


Morning Light Has Come

by dilithium



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Interrupted Wallowing, M/M, Oblivious Ed, Oswald is an Emotional Mess, Post-Episode: s03e07 Red Queen, Self-Pity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilithium/pseuds/dilithium
Summary: Surprisingly, having the Founders' Dinner held up by Jervis Tetch hadn't been the low point of the night. Not so surprisingly, Oswald doesn't want to have to face the next day.His plans don't pan out.





	

The morning light is nowhere near as promising as it had been two days ago. Oswald’s appreciation for the birdsong outside his window is sorely lacking and he’s no longer inclined to bound out of bed, thrumming with energy. Instead, he’s huddled beneath his covers, glaring blearily through reddened eyes at the beam of golden light that’s managed to break through the part in his curtains.

As if having a madman hijack the dinner and wave a gun in his face hadn’t been enough to contend with, he couldn’t even be granted the mercy of coming home to salvage the remainder of the night by eagerly rehashing the evening’s events with Ed. No, he’d had to have his excitement cut short and his heart crushed when he’d walked in to find his chief of staff, arms wrapped around _her_ , oblivious to the world and hardly deigning to look abashed when they’d separated.

In his own _home_.

Is _nothing_ sacred?

Tears burning in his eyes, he’d hardly made it to his room before the first whimper had broken free and it was only after being slumped against his door for nearly an hour that he’d been able to summon the Herculean strength needed to change and collapse into bed. Between alternating bouts of quiet sobs and restless sleep, the rest of the night hadn’t gone much better.

So, here he lies, eyes red and sore, face tear-stained and likely streaked with mascara as he wallows in self-pity and puts off the inevitability of having to rise and face the day.

Sadly, the world seems to have different plans and won’t allow him even that, judging from the sharp knock that jars him from his brooding.

Shoving himself upright when the noise continues, Oswald opens his mouth, ready to snap at Olga to _leave him alone_. He is the mayor of Gotham and he’s just had his life threatened last night, he can afford to be a bit late to breakfast.

“Oswald? _Oswald_?”

_Ed._

The insistent knocking on his door quickly gets louder, and he’s still blinking, stupefied, when he hears, “Oswald! Oswald, are you in ther- Oh. I’m coming in!”

He barely has time to connect the words with the sight of the doorknob turning and the fact that he hadn’t had the presence of mind to lock his door, but he quickly dives back under the protection of his blankets when he does, just as his door swings open. Listening intently, Oswald hastily scrubs at his face, unwilling to let Ed see the extent of the damage, but not quite wanting to turn him away either.

The rustling of paper drives Oswald to peer out, pointedly keeping his face obscured as he squints out at the other man. Ed’s hair is still somewhat sleep-rumpled and he’s about two-thirds dressed, lacking a suit jacket and tie, but in the moment it’s the newspaper he’s brandishing that catches Oswald’s attention. “What’s that?” He asks, wary. “And couldn’t it have waited until breakfast, Ed? Unless the city is burning down, I hardly think it merits a wake-up call…” He trails off when he takes in the thunderous expression on his face and the white-knuckled grip he seems to have on his paper. “Ed?”

“You should have told me.”

Oswald barely manages to get in an affronted, “pardon?” before Ed barrels on.

“I had to read about it in the morning paper! The Founders’ Dinner? _Demented Despot’s Dinner Debacle_!” Volume rising steadily, Ed shakes the offending object as if it had done him personal harm.

Of course. The Gazette. Not all that surprising, but he’s willing to be grudgingly impressed by the speed with which they got the story out.

And then Ed’s words register.

Still not leaving the shelter of his bed, he retorts bitterly. “What do you mean, I should have told you? It’s right there, Ed, what more do you need to know?”

“What more- I need to know you’re alright! You could have been hurt, or _worse_ , Oswald! Not just that, what you went through- I’m your _friend_ , you can tell me anyth-”

Before Oswald’s brain can catch up with him, he lurches out of bed, appearances be damned, and he doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of the taller man, hurt and anger blazing in his eyes. “I _tried_ to tell you! Last night, when I came home! Or did you forget that part of your evening? Do you remember anything apart from your _date_?”

Chest heaving in his outrage, he glares defiantly up at Ed, who mirrors the look right back at him. They stay like that for several moments, at an impasse as they scowl at each other.

Ed seems to yield first, something like the beginnings of shame creeping across his face. But Oswald’s victory proves to be short-lived as Ed’s eyes narrow suddenly.

“You’ve been crying,” he observes.

An embarrassed flush creeps up Oswald's neck and his jaw twitches in response. Giving an irritated flap of his hand as if he could wave the observation away, he gives a brusque shrug and averts his eyes. “It was a bad night. _Not_ the point, Ed.”

When the man doesn’t respond after a small eternity, he risks a glance up at him and blinks. Ed’s expression has softened noticeably and Oswald hates the way his stomach flips at the sight. In his distraction he nearly flinches in surprise when a hand settles on his shoulder.

Guilt worms its way into his chest when the reaction brings a faintly pained look to Ed’s face. Hand shooting up to keep Ed’s in place, he drops his gaze again, feeble apology on the tip of his tongue.

He never gets to voice it as he’s unexpectedly pulled against Ed’s chest and he hardly dares to breathe when Ed’s arms envelop him; the copy of the Gotham Gazette flutters to the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten. Wide-eyed and with an arm trapped between them, Oswald can only nod mutely when he hears Ed breathe a quiet, “I’m sorry,” somewhere in the vicinity of his ear.

“I shouldn’t have- I _should_ have paid more attention, Oswald, I’m sorry. It’s just- No, no, there’s no excuse, I’m sorry.”

With a shuddering sigh, Oswald drops his forehead against the taller man’s shoulder and squirms his arm free, quickly latching onto the back of Ed’s shirt. The emotional exhaustion catches up to him all at once and he has to bite his lip to stop the sob threatening to escape. If a few errant tears manage to seep into the fabric of Ed’s shirt and Ed takes to rubbing circles into Oswald’s back, neither of them mention it.

They stand there, leaning against each other as Oswald allows himself the occasional sniffle until, muffled by Ed’s shoulder, he mumbles, “I think I’m okay now, Ed. Really.” Contradicting himself, he gives no indication that he’s ready to let go but, to his credit, Ed only acknowledges it with a hum and doesn’t stop running his hand along Oswald’s back.

When his eyes are finally dry and he no longer feels like there’s a wail caught in his throat, he loosens his hold on Ed’s shirt and gives him a quick pat on the back, carefully and mournfully extracting himself from the hug.

While they untangle themselves Oswald catches Ed staring somewhere over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Twisting, he can only spot the uncharacteristically haphazard pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and when he turns back around he finds the inquisitive gaze focused on him. Flustered, he takes a step back with a helpless shrug.

“You weren’t kidding about the rough night,” Ed says mildly, moving past him.

“Wait, Ed-”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been for Ed to start picking up after him. But that’s precisely what he does, stooping down to transfer the mess onto his bed and starting to shake out the individual articles of clothing while he looks them over with a critical eye.

“Oswald,” lowering the suit jacket in his hands, Ed fixes him with a sharp look, “you didn’t get hurt, did you? No cuts, bullet wounds, etc., that you’re not telling me about?”

“No! No, I mean, Tetch had a gun, but no, no injuries to speak of.” Halfhearted smile curving his mouth, he indicates the fallen paper on his floor. “Besides, I’d like to think that _someone_ would have noticed if the mayor had been shot.”

Belatedly catching the unintentional accusation, Oswald’s eyes widen and he panics. “No, that’s not- Ed, I didn’t mean-”

Ed’s face is blank and the longer he lets him ramble on, the more Oswald begins to worry that he’s upset his friend again. His fumbling for words comes to a merciful end with a shake of Ed’s head as the man lays out the last of his clothes to smooth the fabric out. “What can you never have for breakfast?”

When Oswald only stares at him, nonplussed, Ed straightens, hands reflexively making to button his jacket only to come up empty when he’s reminded of his half-dressed state.

“Lunch. We’re going to be rushed for breakfast as it is, and your morning is fully booked, but there’s a restaurant I’ve heard quite a bit about. If you want, we could go. There. For lunch. Later.” Looking endearingly uncertain, Ed shifts, one hand sliding into his pocket while he lets the other fiddle with the hem of Oswald’s laid out shirt next to him.

Oswald is nearly overwhelmed by the surge of tender affection that blooms in his chest.

“Of _course_ , lunch, yes. I’d like nothing more.”

He bites his tongue to keep himself from sounding too eager, settling on a bright grin instead and already feeling better than he had when he'd woken up.

Reassured, Ed offers up a sincere smile, head tilting to one side. “Okie dokie. You can tell me all about dinner. Again, if you’d like. Or we could talk about other things. Anything you want.”

Breath stuttering in his chest at the sight of Ed, not quite ready for the day and painfully domestic, Oswald falters, reminded of both the words he’s been struggling and failing to get out, and the way Ed, battered, bruised, yet inexplicably _pleased_ , had smiled at him just a few short days ago.

Admirably, Oswald thinks, he manages to pull himself together, grin morphing into a smirk. “I think I could let myself be enticed into a retelling. And not that I don’t think _very_ highly of the Gazette, but I’m sure I could think of a few details that they missed.”

Practically snickering, Ed starts back toward the door, pausing long enough to press a hand to Oswald’s bicep before he leaves. “It’s a date.”

Face flushing red, Oswald gapes after the other man’s retreating back, composure forgotten. He reminds himself that Ed _doesn’t_ know, that it’s a simple expression that doesn’t mean anything, but his heart keeps hammering away, threatening to burst out of his chest.

“It’s a date,” Oswald whispers to the empty doorway.

**Author's Note:**

> Ed is painfully oblivious, Oswald is a schoolboy with a crush, and I relate deeply to both.


End file.
